


Cry Baby

by orphan_account



Category: Ylvis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 23:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5352413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We can watch the world devoured in its pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble  
> TW drug abuse  
> TW depression  
> TW self harm

He's thin, not sickly thin, but still thin. Maybe 5''11, and not super overly popular. He always lurks in the back of the hallways with a couple of friends, back hunched and eyes scanning dirty tiles. You know they're the colour of carribean seas with a dash of north pole snow; and you like how they sometimes meet yours with little hesitation and a lot of carelessness. You are surrounded by female admirers, and you're letting your feet dangle of the windowsill you're seated on; trying to look utterly disinterested as he slumps by, his bookbag a heavy pull at his shoulder; disfiguring his otherwise arrow straight posture into something that reminds you of the arch of a cocked eyebrow. And you decide you'll have him.

You know he boys he hangs out with; but that doesn't mean you like them. There's Magnus, with a mouth that acts faster than his brain ever could; and it never catches up afterwards, leaving behind a trail of confusion and mild annoyance in his wake. You also know he's the oldest of them, and he buys them vodka and cigarrettes and occasionally gets the E going when the nights stretch too long and he heavy buzz of 40 degrees seems to be too routine to be interesting. But you don't feel like judging them, because you've had your share of serotonine bombs and comecrashfalldowns. The rest you know, by initials, by face, by the way they walk; but you never bothered learning their names.

Only Magnus ever proved being useful anyways.

"You coming tonight?" the husky, prairiedust voice of your best friend breaking the silence a bit too close to your ear; but you try not to wince. Hangovers are to be endured with dignity and heavy heads held high and the feeling of dying throbbing through your veins. It's likable, it's deserved.

"Of course," you answer, nodding for emphasis, a mechanical up and down of your head. Everything you do feels mechanical somehow; just yes, no, nod and shake and shut your mouth when they tell you to. You feel like your skin is not enough and your teeth are ready to chip inside your mouth and your lips hurt and it all feels dull.  
It's a dull word, but it's still dull.  
And somehow you think kissing that boy with his too long hair and his bitten, bruised lips will change that.  
"Is he coming?" you ask, making a gesture towards him; and you can see Vegard's eyebrows furrowing.  
"I can bring him," he says, "Didn't know you're friends with my brother."  
"I'm not." yet.

-

Your knuckles make first contact, and you can feel the skin breaking. You know if you'd look down you would see bright red and glistening flesh.

"I like violence," you once shrieked, before biting down into the throat of the boy that said you were a faggot, "I blame my father."

And you can hear a groan and a thump and you don't have to turn around to know he hit the ground. Your leather jacket feels like armour on these kind of days, and you step away; and you feel cold.  
  
-

"Vodka?" Vegard asks, wrigling his body between a girl (stacy? kim?) and yours, handing you the bottle as if it's a present.  
And you take it, hungrily. Thirsty.

The music is too loud, too melancholic, too psychrock and confusing.  
"Why my brother," he starts, but as you shoot him a glare he shuts up.  
It's not his territory to claim.  
  
And your fingers start fumbling with the seam of your shirt, and you yank it down a couple of times; afraid thin white lines and red, fleshy ones crossing each other on the white skin of your sides will flash up from beneath. Vegard knows, of course, but sitting on the sill of his room, leaning against the cold glass: it makes fabric wander.  
And you're not ready to give up that status of invincible, of tough up. You don't want the girl next to you to notice, because girls have the habit of tracing; and pity. Always so much pity, as if it makes boys like them.

"I wish I was dead," you murmur, loud enough for Vegard's eyes to snap up, his gaze meeting yours with burning curiosity and a little hesitation. "No you don't." "Yes, I wish I was dead," you repeat, "Everybody loves dead people. I could be like JFK; everyone adores him now."  
Vegard lets out a huff, and reconcentrates on the girl that sits next to him; his hands crawling up her thigh; like slender, white spiders. There's something about Vegard, and you don't understand how he can be so compliant. With Vegard it's about being liked, and being adored. He hands over his body in the hope some girl will turn it golden; as long as she pretends to like him during the night.

You don't comply, you demand. You take what you want and you give that unspoken hint of a promise. _Do what I want and I might like you_. You're aggresive in every way, and every corner of your body is filled with agony and impatience; as if the sadness and the anger are a living, beating organ inside of you.  
You're sure if they'd slit you open you would bleed black. Even though you know all too well that's not true.

You get up and leave Vegard alone with her, the girl that sat next to you looking up with hopeful eyes; but you dont reciprocate the gesture of lust she shoots your way. There's someone else you'd like to bury yourself in tonight.

-

"I'm Bard," he says, and his voice quivers; but there's red hot daredevil courage hiding between his teeth, you can see it by the way his eyes meet yours without a trace of doubt. And you want to lean in; but instead your fingers fumble around inside the pocket of your worn out jeans, finding the little piece of fold up plastic.

"I want to play a game," you tell him, giggling as you see his eyes widen.  
"What game?"  
"You'll see," you answer, before ordering, "close your eyes."  
And he follows. Because he is scared; and he is curious.  
You put the little pill on your tongue, and before your hands find their way to his face, you can see his eyes fluttering already.  
Your fingertips carress his cheeks, and your breath meets his somewhere half between, equinox and borderlines.  
  
His lips are soft, but you wriggle your tongue inbetween them, pressing it to his; redhot meeting pure bliss.  
It only takes a little pressure, and you can feel the pill crumbling; and you know it's dissolving on his tongue.

"Have fun," you whisper, nose against nose.

  
You decided you'll have him.

 

Fifteen minutes. It's a countdown, it's a game. '  
You've got the rattle and the rabit in sight and you're ready to bite.  
"Let's go swimming," you say, pressing your lips against his ear, tongue darting for a split second; rattlesnake fast.  
You don't wait for an answer, you just grab his hand, yank him with you; through the green of the backyard to the lagoon blue of the heated swimming pool.  
"Why is nobody here," he says, and the light dissolves his face and reforms it stellar. Stardust and shadows and you want to lick it off.  
You don't answer his question, you're not sure if you registered it; as you let yourself hit the opaque surface of the water without a warning, his hand still intertwined with yours, and in that moment he's collateral damage in a lovely collision and a fireball of a car crash.

His hair sticks to his forehead when it's wet, and you giggle at it, you also giggle at the way his breathing turned to gasps the moment he hit the water. "Let's dive to the bottom," you whisper, already dragging him down as you dive head first towards the floor.  
And you are floating there, with your navy blue sweater and your ripped jeans and this supernova of a boy at the other end of your stretched out arm, his hair surrounding his head like a cloud; waving around in the water. As you both break the surface and draw in shaky first breaths; it feels like hellfire.

And love. It feels like love.

"If i kissed you right now," you start, already seeing how his chest stops heaving at the sound of your words, "would you push me away." You notice how it doesn't even sound like a question, not even close.  
You can see his fingers; floating on top of the water, trembling fingertips causing waves; his staccato heartbeat mirroring your own.  
And you swim closer, and closer; until your legs tangle like roots and his lips are close again.  
"You already did," he says, "I didn't push you away, did I?"

And inbetween the halogen lights that shine bright beneath blue, chlorine filled water; you kiss him again.

 


End file.
